New York State of Mind
by Kaylee Snape
Summary: This will eventually be a story about Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter falling in love. For quite some time, however, it will be a story about Draco Malfoy trapped in a strange place with no magic. This is my very first attempt at writing fanfiction, so pl
1. Confrontation

"New York State of Mind"

Kaylee Snape

**Chapter 1 – Confrontation**

"Transmito absens," Draco Malfoy muttered to himself. "Transmito absens." He glared at the sky above him, the sky that stubbornly insisted on remaining bright blue and cloudless, when by all rights it should have been crawling with black thunderclouds and sheeting rain. If life worked the way it was supposed to—the way it did in books and movies—the rain would have been coming down in torrents so thick that even with the lightning flashing every other second, Draco would have been almost blind. Of course, weather like that probably would not have been very helpful, but it would have been far more appropriate.

"Transmito absens." This time, the repeated spell was accompanied by a complicated flicking motion that looked like a cross between the hand jive and sign language. Draco was walking a very thin mental line- he knew that if he concentrated too hard on what was to come, he would grow incredibly nervous and fail to fulfill his mission. However, if he didn't think about it at all, he might forget some important word or gesture, and then he would fail to fulfill his mission. Either way, the Dark Lord would be greatly upset and his father… Draco didn't even want to _think_ about his father's reaction. Failure was simply not an option, not on the first and most important mission Draco had ever been assigned. If he succeeded—_when_ he succeeded—he would obtain the Dark Mark before returning to Hogwarts for his fourth year, and if that weren't enough a reward, he would be able to participate in whatever his father had planned for the World Quidditch Cup.

A brief thought occurred to Draco, but he shoved it to the back of his mind before his brain could fully formulate it into words and therefore make his mind accept it. He did not wonder whether or not he wanted the Dark Mark; he knew: it was what he was meant for. His birth signified another Death Eater to carry on the Malfoy tradition. It was an honor, and everyone—everyone who mattered, anyway—would be horribly jealous of Draco when he returned to Hogwarts. His father told him so.

In an effort to distract himself from his disquieting almost-thoughts, Draco looked at his surroundings, rather more intently than the rather mundane environs warranted. To either side of him were rows of almost-identical houses; the only way that Draco could tell that they were not merely the same house over and over is that each one would have a slightly different color for its shutters, or a different type of tree in the front yard, or a different car in the driveway. If all of these houses looked the same… where in Salazar's name _was_ he? And… where exactly was he supposed to end up?

He fished around the pocket of his black jeans—he had worn Muggle clothing to fit in with his surroundings—and pulled out a piece of paper. The sun was shining so brightly he didn't even have to squint to discern that the words on the page read "Number Four Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey." He jogged a few steps to the nearest street sign, the breeze created by his passage plastering his new silk shirt to his chest, and peered up at his present location. Where in the world was 'Magnolia Crescent?' Where the Hades was Privet Drive? Had he passed the turnoff while preoccupied with practicing?

Draco retraced his steps quickly, his calf-high black leather boots thumping rather loudly on the pavement. The disquieting sameness of the houses made it seem as if Draco weren't moving at all but simply retracing his over and over again in a never-ending loop. How could Muggles _live_ like this? A block later, he found the turnoff. There, his steps slowed, and the nervousness he had tried to suppress came back with a vengeance. Forget butterflies—Draco imagined that a herd of dragons were having fiery, aerial battles in the roiling mass that had once been his stomach. He was about to die of fear, and it was almost time for him to kidnap Potter.

He really should have been supplied with more of a plan than "Kidnap Potter by saying this spell." That wasn't even a plan- that was just a set of orders! He couldn't just walk up to the door and say "I'm here for Harry Potter… could he?" Actually, why couldn't he? He could say that he brought orders from the school board… The set of orders that he had been given completely bypassed the half-baked stage and developed into a fully-fledged plan, and a very clever one at that, at least in Draco's completely unbiased opinion.

Sooner than he would have thought possible, he was standing in front of a rather small, square house with the same address as his slip of paper… Potter's house. Time to screw his courage to the sticking place, as it says in Shakespeare's _Macbeth_, and-

He rang the doorbell. A boy of about his own age answered the door, but this boy was definitely not Potter; he was huge! He was larger than Crabbe and Goyle put together, and he didn't have an ounce of muscle on his body. Draco took a moment to gauge the measurement of the door and the boy, noting with inner amusement that he would have to turn sideways to fit out of the front door. "Yes?" the boy said with the irritated air of one who was forced to repeat himself thanks to the stupidity of others. Thanks to the aforementioned Crabbe and Goyle, Draco knew that tone intimately.

Leaning up against the doorpost with his trademark smirk, Draco replied "I'm looking for Harry Potter."

The dislike that had appeared on the boy's face at the presence of Draco's smirk deepened into suspicion. "You're one of his weird friends, aren't you!" The supposed question came out as an accusation, and Draco could clearly sense the fear behind his words.

"If I am," Draco moved so that the tip of his wand peeked out of the top of his jean pocket, "it wouldn't be wise to keep me waiting, now would it?"

The obese boy blanched and disappeared so quickly that had Draco not known he was a Muggle, he would have suspected the boy of having apparated. After a few moments, he reappeared at the top of the stairs. His massive expanse of flesh blocked the stairs completely, so no matter how Draco strained his eyes, he couldn't tell if there was another figure behind the locationally confused whale or not.

At the bottom of the stairs, the boy moved aside to reveal a familiar figure with bright green eyes, perpetually unkempt hair, and the lightning bolt scar that had made him the second most famous wizard in all of London, possibly in all of Wizarding England. "What are you doing here, Malfoy?" asked Potter the moment the Muggle shifted to reveal Draco's presence.

"Why all of this hostility, Potter?" Draco asked, opening his eyes in mock-innocence and placing a hand over his heart as if wounded. "Oh, I know—you have so few friends that whenever one visits, it just throws you into a state of shock. It's all right, Potter, I'll let it go. I would do the same for Weasley if I ever watched him open a bag of galleons. Of course, that would never happen, so I'm safe."

"I know you didn't just come here to insult my friends. Get to the point, Malfoy, so that I can get rid of you."

Draco glanced at the room into which the Muggle had disappeared. "Let's take a walk, Potter. I don't want to spend any longer in a Muggle house than I have to." He bowed mockingly, never taking his eyes off Potter who approached the door warily.

"You first," he ordered shortly.

"All of this mistrust!" Draco's nervousness was making him even more flippant than he usually was. He preceded Potter out of the door, figuring that the stupid Gryffindor would be too noble to hit him in the back with a jinx.

Draco's supposition was correct, and the two began walking side by side down the street of Privet Drive, each watching the other out of the corner of his eye. When Draco judged that they were far enough out of earshot, he stopped and turned to face Potter.

"You know that my father is on the school board-" Draco began

"Not anymore," Potter interrupted.

Draco continued as if he hadn't spoken. "Well, he came home last night and told me a piece of news so delicious that I had to deliver it in person. Because that criminal Black is still on the loose, and he apparently has some sort of reason to want you dead, you won't be allowed at Hogwarts next year! You've been deemed 'a danger to the students.'"

Draco was so busy gearing himself up for the spell he was about to perform that he almost missed the look of horror on Potter's face. Before the stunned part of the stunned disbelief could wear off, Draco whipped out his wand and yelled "Silencio!" Now that Potter couldn't utter a counter spell, Draco could take his time to perform the next, much more difficult spell properly. "Transmito absens-AHHHHH!" Just as Draco was finishing his spell, Potter leapt at him, almost wrenching his wand out of his hand. Draco's vision narrowed, and all he saw was the stupid Muggle-raised Potter who had been so… ill-bred as to attack him physically. He was barely aware of any sense of movement; he only realized that his surroundings had changed when he hit his head on an object that hadn't been there two moments before, and that was the last thing he realized for quite some time.


	2. Separate Ways Worlds Apart

**Chapter Two- Separate Ways (Worlds Apart)**

Pain. That was the first thing Draco noticed as he slowly awoke, pulled from the blessed darkness of unconsciousness, his head was a mass of pain. He moaned aloud, wincing as the sound of his own voice made his head hurt even worse.

The next voice to speak made his head hurt for more reasons than one. "Welcome back to the land of the living, Malfoy. Now, would you mind telling me where we are?"

"Potter?" Draco didn't want to open his eyes. He was afraid that it might hurt, and he was afraid that he would see something he really didn't want to.

"Good job, Malfoy. Glad to see that the little concussion you had left you with both your memory and intelligence intact." Potter's voice was dripping with irritated sarcasm.

The memories began flooding back. His father's orders. His trip to Potter's house. The attempted spell. Potter attacking him physically because he had been silenced-

"Hey, you can speak!" Draco's eyes flew open in shock, but he closed them immediately when the light sent darts of pain hurtling through his eyes to stab his aching head.

"Once again, Malfoy, you dazzle me with your clever statements of the obvious."

"I silenced you!" Malfoy knew that he wasn't really forming coherent thoughts, but he also knew that his silencio spell was far too good to have worn off to soon, unless… "How long have I been knocked out?"

"About half an hour. I tried to make you wake up earlier, but it didn't work. In fact, I discovered something interesting: apparently, all magic has stopped working."

Draco's eyes flew open again, and this time, he forced them to stay open despite the pain. "What?" he asked in disbelief. He pulled out his wand, but Potter beat him to it.

"Petrificus Totalus!" he said, pointing his wand directly at Draco.

"Hey!" Draco said angrily. "Hey!" he repeated, this time surprised, "I can still move."

"Maybe I spoke too soon about the concussion leaving you with your wits intact. If you'll remember, Malfoy, I told you already: magic has ceased to work." Potter was leaning against a dirty stone wall, looking down at Draco who realized for the first time that he was lying on cold, hard pavement. They were in some sort of back alley, the sort of alley that cropped up everywhere in London. It offered no clue as to where they were, or why magic had stopped working.

"Where are we?" he asked, hoping Potter could offer some clue.

"I was actually thinking that you could tell me." Potter said, dashing Draco's hopes. "After all, it was your spell that brought us here. Or else made magic stop working, I'm not really clear on that point."

"The spell was supposed to take you somewhere. I don't know where. Probably not here." Draco glared at Potter. "This is all your fault!" he accused.

"_My_ fault?" Potter had the gall to look incredulous. "_You're_ the one who attacked me and cast the spell that brought us here!"

"It wasn't supposed to bring _me_ anywhere—only you—and even you weren't supposed to end up here. If you hadn't attacked me-"

"Then what?" Potter interrupted. "Where would I be, Malfoy? Would I be at the hands of your father and Voldemort? Would I currently be enjoying torture? Or would I be alive at all?"

Malfoy didn't want to think about that. Ever since he had received his orders, he had been trying his hardest to avoid thinking about any of those possibilities. "I don't know!" he said, fully aware that he sounded like a petulant child but unable to help himself. He was lost, he was without magic, and he _hurt!_ "I don't know where you would be. All I was supposed to do was say that spell—that was it! I was just following orders…" he trailed off as he realized that Potter was staring at him in disgust.

"It didn't ever occur to you to _think_ about the consequences of what you were doing to me? To one of your schoolmates? As much as I disliked you, Malfoy, I wouldn't have killed you."

"But… my father told me to do it." He knew even as he said it that it was a pathetic excuse and that Potter would never accept it. Potter didn't know just how… persuasive the elder Malfoy could be. He couldn't say no to his father! It just… wasn't done.

"Pa-thetic" Potter's scorn was not helping Draco's headache. "Since you are apparently incapable of thinking for yourself, I suppose I'll have to do all of the decision-making for the two of us. My first decision is that you get up so that we can figure out where in London we are."

Draco was _not_ going to allow Potter to waltz in and claim superiority, as if he were somehow _better_ than the Slytherin. "Just because you're the Boy-Who-Lived, you think you can come in and take charge-"

"At least I'm not the Boy-Who-Screwed-Up-A-Spell-And-Maybe-Destroyed-Magic!"

"It was your fault," Draco muttered sullenly, but under his breath this time. Potter didn't deserve the amount of effort it would take to continue the argument right now. Draco would let him think he had won—but just to satisfy his power-hungry self-esteem. Draco knew who had _really_ won that argument. He slowly rose from his prone position on the pavement, trying to mask his pain as deliberateness. Once he stood fully upright, he swayed dangerously, and only his pride and his resolution that he _would not_ show weakness in front of Potter kept him from putting out a hand to steady himself. The dizziness subsided after a few moments, and Draco looked at Potter for direction. "Which way, Great and Fearless Leader?" he asked.

"That way." Potter pointed to the left.

"Any particular reason?"

Potter shot him the same "How can you be so dense?" look that Draco had perfected in his dealings with Crabbe and Goyle. "Because I can hear cars that way," he answered.

Draco didn't feel like wasting the perfect retort on Potter, so he remained silent. Potter stopped short just where the alley met the road. A little irritated now, Draco pushed him aside.

At first, he didn't realize what had sent Potter into such a state of shock. It was a busy city road, the type that's found anywhere in a city the size of London. He did notice that the skyscraper-type buildings meant they were in a newer business section, not one of the older or more tourist-friendly areas. Then, he noticed something that didn't fit.

"They're driving on the right!" Draco blurted, shocked. Wait, magic didn't work, and people were driving on the right side of the road… Draco knew what that added up to, and it wasn't a pretty answer. "We're in America!"

"What?" Potter turned to look at Draco, his eyes demanding an explanation. "There are other places—places closer to home—where people drive on the right side of the road."

"But not where magic doesn't work," Draco pointed out. He realized that Potter was still struggling with comprehension. "Oh, come now, Potter," Draco said, regaining a touch of his normal superiority, "You can't say you don't know the story! Haven't you ever studied the Salem witch trials?"

"Not from the wizarding point of view," Potter argued sullenly.

"Someone doesn't listen during History of Magic, do they?"

"Skip the gloating part and get straight to your point before I die of boredom."

Malfoy could tell that he was irritating Potter, and it made him feel _so_ much better. "Well you see, Potter, after the mass hysteria over magic in the seventeenth century, the people in charge decided that America was no place for wizards or witches."

"So, all we have to do is take a bus to Canada or Mexico-"

"Potter, you'll notice that I didn't say 'the United States.' I said 'America.'" Draco interrupted him before he could continue making pointless plans.

"You don't mean-"

"After the trials, the Powers That Be cast a blanket spell over the Americas that keeps all magic from being performed—it's supposed to be a kindness, to keep people from being arrested and burned alive. Therefore, there are no witches or wizards in North America, South America, or any other part of this magicforsaken hemisphere."

"None… at all?"

"There are a few people who call themselves witches, and some even have general knowledge of the wizarding world, but they're usually squibs or the descendents of squibs with no real power."

"Where are they?" Potter asked, sounding desperate.

"Salem, I think, but it won't do any good. They can't have the ability to leave or they would have left. No one with even a spark of magical ability wants to live here." Draco would be taken much more enjoyment in crushing Potter's hopes if his own hadn't been rapidly plummeting with every word he spoke.

"I can't blame them. Now… how do we figure out which America this is?"

Draco could tell that Potter was just thinking aloud, but he thought he might answer anyway. "Why don't you look at a license plate?"

Potter shot him a look, but because Draco had been careful to remove all hints of sarcasm from his voice before speaking, he couldn't make a retort. The two magic-less wizards walked forward slowly and, with a sense of foreboding, looked at the license plate of the nearest parked car. For a long moment, they stood in silence. "Welcome to New York City," Potter said, his voice filled with irony.

Draco made up his mind; it was time to make the best of a no good, very bad, horrible situation. "Bye, Potter," he said, turning away.

"Where are you going?" Potter asked, his voice sounding slightly desperate.

"To find a job so that I can earn enough money for a plane ticket home. Good luck with your life." Draco turned around and saw Potter's stricken face. Immediately, he began reconsidering his situation, but… no. His mind was made up. Besides, what would his father think if he knew that his beloved son had begun following Potter like the Weasel or the Mudblood? "Surely you didn't think that I would need you to hold my hand the whole time we're stuck here?" Draco said, trying to layer enough mock surprise and amusement in his voice that Potter wouldn't realize how nervous he really was. "I _have_ ventured into the Muggle world before this. See you, Potter. _If_ you ever get back, that is." Draco continued walking, and this time, he didn't turn back around.


	3. Starstruck

**Chapter Three- Starstruck**

Where did Draco want to work? He needed to make a lot of money fairly quickly, but how? Most of the places with large paychecks required experience, which he lacked. However… Draco was fairly certain that he recalled one conversation about summer jobs a Muggle-born Hufflepuff had had with her pureblood friend. In that conversation, Draco thought he remembered the Mudblood mentioning that she could make over fifty pounds a night in tips while working as a waitress. He wasn't up to date in all forms of Muggle money, but he knew that five pounds was almost equivalent to one galleon, so the girl had been earning ten galleons a night. While not impressive compared to the wealth Draco was used to, it was a considerable sum of money and could easily help him obtain a plane ticket. It was settled, then. Draco Malfoy would become a waiter.

Draco knew exactly the sort of restaurant he wanted. It couldn't be too upscale because those sorts of restaurants required that their staff have previous experience, but it couldn't be a poor-man's type restaurant either, or the moneymaking would go unacceptably slowly, and such a dive would force Draco to demean himself unnecessarily… he would never be able to look his father in the face again.

Draco set off, scanning each restaurant he passed and dismissing each in turn as unsuitable to his oh-so-specific purposes. He refused to think about the sheer number of people pressing in on him on all sides and the difficulty of finding a decent job in a place with this many people, many of whom must have already snatched up the good jobs. He also refused to consider Potter and the way that he had left Potter to fend for himself in a situation that could possibly be considered by some people to maybe be partially Draco's fault. He most definitely would not think about his esteemed father and what his father would say about a member of the illustrious, purebred Malfoy line becoming a Muggle waiter, forced to serve magicless freaks the way lesser creatures like house elves served the Malfoys. No, Draco didn't think about any of these things and instead considered the fluttery feeling in his stomach to be excitement. After all, New York was an exciting place, being the City of Love. Or maybe it was the Big Apple. No, Draco dismissed that nickname as entirely too stupid for the city. Who would name their city after an overgrown fruit?

Suddenly, Draco stopped short and the person directly behind him bumped into him, flipping up his middle finger while saying something that might have been "duck, fool!" Draco wasn't really sure, as the man had an odd accent, and the man's accent wasn't the point. The point was that Draco had found his perfect restaurant: Ellen's Stardust Diner. It looked… what was the Muggle word… retro. It had a sort of 1950's setup, the type that Draco knew from watching Muggle movies like _Grease_ and _Pleasantville _over at Pansy's place. There was a blue overhanging canopy that jutted out into the street, as if to draw more attention to the place and offer protection from rain and presumably snow, though neither was in evidence at the moment. There was a smaller black and yellow sign below it that said "signing wait staff." How extraordinarily lucky: the very first restaurant Draco spotted that looked both busy and moderately pricey was also looking for waiters. The outside of the restaurant was made of exceedingly vivid red sheet metal which reaffirmed all of Draco's opinions about the dubious quality of Muggle taste or the lack thereof. Still, necessity breeds desperate measures, or something of the sort.

After mentally donning the facade that Draco had perfected over the years, the expression that simultaneously said "I am better than you" and "give me what I want," he felt much more like himself. Some people may call him selfish, especially those Hogwarts students with the dismal luck to be sorted into houses other than Slytherin, but Draco knew that he was really just dedicated. His father had once told him that he was proud of Draco's dedication and perseverance. It wasn't that Draco was spoiled or had never been denied something he wanted—he had been denied his way far more often than he would like to admit—it was that… Draco paused and realized that he had been standing outside of the restaurant, staring at the garishly red wall for almost five minutes. Once he realized that he was procrastinating, he could fight against it.

Draco Malfoy half-marched, half-sauntered into the restaurant. "Good afternoon, can I help you?" asked a bored but still vaguely polite voice. Draco turned and surveyed the host, who was leaning against the host stand in what was probably not regulation "greet the guest" stance. The host—his nametag said "Michael"—was wearing what appeared to be the official male uniform of the restaurant: black shoes, black pants, and a shirt that was almost all black, except for a red collar that connected with a thick red stripe running down the center of the shirt, a stripe spotted with black buttons. It fit in with Draco's idea of the retro part of the restaurant, but it didn't stop him from gazing with what he hoped was superiority and confidence into Michael's bored green eyes.

"I'm here for a job," Draco said, his voice steady, even, and as confident has he intended. "Where do I apply?"

Michael cocked an eyebrow and smiled, dropping the veneer of ennui. "Oh, you're _British!_" he said, his voice rather higher than Draco had thought it would be. "How cute. How old are you, British boy?"

Something about the boy's slightly… effeminate manner of speaking made Draco uncomfortable. "I'm seventeen," he replied, still trying to maintain his confidence. Really, he was less than a month away from turning fifteen, and two years was so little as to be almost insignificant.

Michael leaned so close to Draco that he had to fight not to draw away slightly. Were all Muggles this invasive of personal space, or was that trait unique to Americans? "In the lovely US of A, you have to be eighteen to live on your own and get your own job," he whispered.

"But my birthday is June 5th, which is just a few weeks away," Draco continued smoothly.

"Per-fect!" Michael put all the emphasis on the first syllable, drawing out the word in a manner that was almost musical. "Well, my young English friend… what's your name?"

"Draco. Draco Malfoy." Draco wasn't sure whether to offer the host his hand or to simply stand there awkwardly, but Michael made the decision for him by reaching over and _grabbing_ one of Draco's hands, holding it rather longer than was strictly necessary, and… was he _rubbing_ his thumb on Draco's palm?

"And I am Michael Mattison, _very_ pleased to meet you." Michael smiled and dropped Draco's hand, just before he would have pulled his hand away by force and taken the risk of losing this job even before he had applied. "You're in luck—the manager is in today. Follow me, and I'll show you the room where you'll audition."

Draco wondered at the choice of the word 'audition.' Was this a bit of American slang, to say 'audition' rather than 'apply,' or was this simply New York posturing: in the city that houses Broadway, every job requires an audition? He concentrated on this question—better to think about this than what was to come.

The room to which Michael led him was obviously a storage closet of some sort—why else would it hold an old piano? "Have a seat in one of those chairs" said Michael, waving expansively towards a group of three chairs, covered in what was once shiny red leather, but which age had darkened to a dull brown, and which decades of derrieres had rubbed to the point that the chair was pocketed with white dots where the stuffing had begun to show through. "Don't worry—the audition process isn't scary, even if it is selective. Only the best of the best work here, you know." Michael winked in a way that Draco hoped was meant sarcastically, because otherwise it would point to him having an ego to rival the ex-Professor Lockhart's. "Just relax, and it'll be over soon enough!" With one final grin that was probably meant to be encouraging but which came across as a continuation of his over-the-top wink, Michael left, presumably to get the manager.

Draco stared aimlessly at the walls, wondering why what was presumably a long-ignored storeroom was scrubbed scrupulously clean. Perhaps the Ministry of Restaurants, or whatever it was that Americans had, ruled the Muggles with an iron fist. Really, Draco had only a dim understanding of what it was that went on in kitchens—even the kitchen of his own manor. They had servants and suchlike to attend to that. An insistent, whispering voice deep in his mind told him he was even lower than a servant now, a Muggle without any marketable skills. Draco told the voice to put a sock in it. He was a Malfoy; he would manage.

Realizing that he had been staring through the same picture for about five minutes while engaged in that inner argument, Draco mentally shook himself. He was a Malfoy and he was a Slytherin and he had all of the cunning and guile and whatever else he needed to succeed. Draco Lucius Regulus Phineas Abraxas Orion Malfoy was a wizard, descended from wizards, and therefore better than every Muggle here. Ignoring the snippets of music and conversation from the main portion of the restaurant, Draco stared pointedly at the posters on the wall. One among them caught his eye, and he half-rose from his chair to take a closer look at the poster with a plain black background and an unadorned white mask. It was its simplicity that caught his eye. This, then, was a musical that did not depend on spectacle but on beauty: the beauty of the story, or perhaps of the song. Above the mask, Draco read the words "Phantom of the Opera," and below the mask was a name: Andrew Lloyd Webber.

Andrew Lloyd Webber… Draco knew that name from somewhere, but where? Of course! Last year, Pansy had become obsessed with wizarding musicals, and one of her favorites was _Kneazles_, with music by Andrew Lloyd Webber and the lyrics by… someone whose name Draco had forgotten. She had spent the entire blasted summer singing about "Jellicle Kneazles" and "Grizabella, the Glamour Kneazle" until Draco had been almost ready to scream. It wasn't that he disliked wizarding musicals; it was simply that Pansy's off-key, scratchy voice ruined already inane and pointless songs about prancing animals. Draco actually really enjoyed one of Webber's other musicals, _Banshee of the Opera_-

His thoughts on West End wizarding musicals were interrupted by the abrupt opening of the room's small door, through which Michael entered, with two other people following close behind.


End file.
